


water lost in the sea

by twoif



Category: Tennis no Oujisama | Prince of Tennis
Genre: M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Post-Canon, but not noncanonical necessarily
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-25
Updated: 2016-07-25
Packaged: 2018-07-26 17:35:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7583491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twoif/pseuds/twoif
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's nowhere to go but on.</p><blockquote>
  <p>Ryoma is twenty-one. He is an adult and no longer in any way beholden to Tezuka's care or responsibility. Tennis magazines call him a star, potentially the most dominant player in the circuit. His father died recently. This is important, and yet neither of them has talked about it. He still calls Tezuka "buchou". He still thinks of strength in terms of architectural fixtures. He still has not forgiven Tezuka.</p>
  <p>Tezuka is twenty-four. He has a job, an apartment he shares with a person he still describes as enigmatic despite more than a decade of acquaintance, and a tennis racket hidden so deep in his closet that even Fuji doesn't know about it. Sometimes he watches the tennis team at school practice and has to resist shouting at them to run laps. He doesn't know if he is happy, but he knows he finally wants to be. He does not know if this is will bring him happiness. He does not know if he wants it to.</p>
  <p>Tezuka is twenty-four, and he thinks everything is six years too early and six years too late.</p>
</blockquote>
            </blockquote>





	water lost in the sea

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted [July 2007](http://two-if-by-sea.livejournal.com/170705.html).

When Echizen Nanjirou slips into a coma after getting into a traffic accident, it is Inui who informs Tezuka. He emails the news to Tezuka's most secret email address, the one he only uses to archive important messages. "I think it would be a good idea to communicate with Echizen-kun in some fashion," Inui writes. "It will be a difficult time for him. He would like your support."

Tezuka replies by asking Inui how he got this email address.

Echizen Nanjirou's condition is not mentioned in any of the major tennis magazines Tezuka reads. He is not sure if it's because Ryoma is private to the point of secrecy or because no one remembers the first samurai anymore. It's probably a little bit of both.

Tezuka does not have Ryoma's email address. In fact, he no longer has any communication information for Ryoma at all. He assumes Inui does, but he does not ask for it. He does not even think about it. After a few days, he has completely pushed it out of his mind. The midterms are coming up, and he still has not written the test. He needs to focus.

 

 

In May, Fuji disappears from the apartment for a week. These things no longer surprise Tezuka. When he discovers the house empty after coming back from school, he stretches, makes himself green tea, and spends a whole night sitting up in the dining room grading homework. The next few days, he cooks his tofu and miso soup the way he likes it, without chili powder.

Fuji comes back on a Sunday. Tezuka hears him come in when he steps out of the shower, towel looped around his waist, after an early morning run, and goes out to greet him, but Ryoma is in their living room, contemplating their couch. Tezuka almost drops his towel; instead of lunging, he makes his way to his bedroom as quickly as possible, shuts the door. There are no locks in the entire house, not even in the bathroom.

Outside, he can hear Fuji saying, "Ah, has Tezuka finished showering yet?"

"You didn't tell me you were living with buchou," Ryoma says. 

It has been six years since Tezuka has heard his voice. Whenever he remembers Ryoma, he no longer hears anything. Everything is a series of blurred images, the occasional touch, connected by the smooth arcs of Ryoma's shots hurtling towards him. What conversations they've had, Tezuka's memory has reduced to simple one-line summaries: _This was when I graduated. This was when he graduated. This was on the phone when he came back to Japan to visit. This was when I went pro. This was the last time we spoke._

Fuji clicks his tongue disapprovingly. "He's not your buchou anymore, Echizen."

Tezuka agrees. He is putting on his shirt. His hands are calm, controlled. His shoulder has not hurt in a long time. 

 

 

Ryoma is outside Tezuka's door when he leaves his room fully dressed. Tezuka has to resist the urge to slam it shut again when he sees the way Ryoma is looking at him. He knows that shutting the door is not something he would have done when he was still buchou. 

But he has not been anyone's buchou for a long time either.

"Fuji didn't tell me—" he begins, and Tezuka rushes to interrupt him, to move past him and out of the narrow doorway, "I know. He didn't tell me either."

Fuji is pouring tea in the kitchen. He comes out with cups and a can of Ponta, which must have been purchased from a vending machine outside. "What would your mother say if she saw you being so rude to a guest?" he asks without raising his head. He arranges the drinks on the table—Ryoma across from Tezuka, Fuji at the head. 

Tezuka does not make a move to sit down. "Where were you?" he asks. 

"Attending a funeral," Fuji replies. "I thought a little reunion might be nice. Don't you agree, Tezuka?" He takes a seat and drinks from his cup, surveying Tezuka from the rim. 

Ryoma reappears suddenly, picking up his sports bag next to the couch with unnecessary violence. "Forget it," he says to Fuji. In the genkan, he starts to shove on his sneakers. "Obviously this is a stupid idea. I'm leaving."

"Don't be silly. I didn't offer you a place to stay so that you could leave." Fuji's tone discourages any argument; his gaze dares either one of them to disagree with him. "Why don't you lie down for a while first? You must still have some jetlag." Fuji begins to pour himself more tea, stops, and then smiles, as if to himself. "You can use my bed. It's the bedroom over there."

No one moves. Ryoma still only has on one shoe. The other is in his hand, shoelaces askew. If he puts that one on, Tezuka thinks feverishly, they might never see each other face to face for the rest of their lives. If he walks out the door, they will probably die having never spoken to each other ever again. Then Tezuka notices his hands by his side, how his fingernails are biting into the flesh of his palm, hard enough to almost draw blood.

Slowly, Ryoma puts down his other shoe and takes off the one on his foot. He drops his bag on the couch without once acknowledging Tezuka's presence. When the door to Fuji's bedroom closes, Tezuka still has not moved. Fuji is scrutinizing Tezuka's face, waiting. Finally, he rests his cup on the table and, tapping his lip, says, "Well, that was exciting." 

He is no longer smiling. 

 

 

One year ago, after winning his second Grand Slam, Men's Vogue interviews Ryoma for a story. He has, by then, a reputation for being exceptionally photogenic, strangely vulnerable, and prone to shutting down any journalist when they try to probe him in certain areas of his private life. 

In the first picture accompanying the article, Ryoma is crouched on the floor, trying to entice a spotted Himalayan cat with a tennis ball. In the second picture, he and his father, the ex-professional tennis player Nanjirou Echizen, are brandishing large permanent markers and scribbling insults at each other on a blank wall. The worst are either blackened out or in Japanese. The photographer has caught them as they are both looking at each other, almost, but not quite, smiling. In the third, Ryoma is in a full suit, tossing a ball in the air, about to twist serve straight into the camera. His lips are curved in a smirk.

The last picture is of Ryoma wearing shorts and a dark blue and white sports jacket, dressed down to the point of sneakers. On his head is a white cap. His face is turned almost completely away from the camera, though the light happens to catch his cheek. Ryoma is leaning against a white marble pillar, his hands in his pockets. Everything is pensive and quiet, as if the entire picture is holding its breath. 

In the interview, Ryoma is candid about his family, his nonexistent love life, and what he thinks about his peers in the circuit. However, the interviewer is forced to note the conspicuous silence that occurs after Ryoma is asked about the people who have inspired him the most. 

The caption next to one of the pictures quotes his answer to the question, what do you think is the number one misconception about you? "I think people are always disappointed when they really get to know others," it reads. "The truth is no one . . . lives up to expectations."

 

 

Ryoma doesn't wake up for dinner. Fuji goes to make sure and comes back to the kitchen shaking his head. "I suppose he'll get up when he's hungry," Fuji says, tasting the soup. "Do we have any curry powder left?" He starts to rummage through the cabinet where Tezuka has all of the salt, pepper, and spices precisely labeled. 

"Fuji, we need to talk," Tezuka says, putting down the skillet and wiping his hand on a towel. Fuji doesn't stop. After Tezuka puts down the dishes on the dining table and goes to take the soup off the stove, Fuji is still on his tiptoes, reading the labels. "Fuji, stop it. We don't have any curry powder."

"See, you should have just said so in the first place."

The stove is still on. Tezuka has to lean over Fuji to turn it off before something is set on fire accidentally. Right at that moment, Fuji catches his hand. "The stove," Tezuka protests. Fuji turns it off. He moves his pinkie along Tezuka's lifeline. His hands are cold. 

"We need to talk," Tezuka says, his voice almost whispering. 

"We do," Fuji agrees. His voice is actually a whisper.

"About Echizen."

"About a lot of things," Fuji amends. The kitchen light, never flattering, is harsh on his face. He is no longer the wry, mysterious junior high student that Tezuka first met on the tennis courts. There are no lines, but his face is harder, the skin drawn tighter across his brow and around his mouth. He is older. Tezuka understands him both better in some places and less in others, and sometimes he still does not understand Fuji at all.

Then Fuji lets go, taking the pot of soup away from Tezuka and proceeding to lay out bowls, plates, chopsticks. Tezuka is not hungry, but he eats anyway. Fuji tells an anecdote about a stewardess. He does not mention the funeral or why Ryoma is here, and Tezuka does not ask.

It is Tezuka's turn to do the dishes tonight. Fuji takes some leftovers and a bowl of rice on a tray and goes to his bedroom. He doesn't bother to knock first. Tezuka focuses only on the sponge in his hands and the plate he is washing. There is no one in the living room when he is finished drying his hands. He sits down with an autobiography of Natsume Soseki, goes through a chapter and does not read a single word of it. Ryoma's bag is on the couch next to him. 

He takes a shower and goes to bed. When he turns off the light, he realizes with a shock that he is still clinging to the hope that this is an elaborate joke or dream, that he will wake up and it will be Sunday again.

 

 

At around twelve, Tezuka wakes up to Fuji slipping into his bed. The lights are still off in the room when Tezuka opens his eyes. The back of Fuji's head, the white t-shirt he sleeps in, both are luminous in the dark. Tezuka sits up so he can see Fuji lying on his side in Tezuka's bed, eyes still open. Tezuka is trapped between the wall and Fuji. "Relax," Fuji says, pulling Tezuka's covers around his waist with a tug. He breathes slowly, steadily. 

"Is Echizen still in your room?" Fuji nods. Tezuka grips the sheets. When he notices it, he forces himself to relax. When he starts to lie back down, Fuji sits up too, and then they are facing each other in too cramped a space. It's been a month since they've been this close. Tezuka thinks about how large the couch is, how Fuji has slept there before.

As if in slow motion, Fuji brings his hand up to Tezuka's face. His finger traces the shape of Tezuka's mouth, brushing against the lower lip until Tezuka has to pull away. "If I always have an excuse," Fuji murmurs in the dark, his knuckles ghosting against Tezuka's cheek, "will it always be safe? Will you always relent?"

"I don't understand," Tezuka breathes.

Fuji cocks his head to one side and smiles as he says, "Of course you don't." He presses against Tezuka's side and pauses. The weight is neither safe nor comforting. 

Sex with Fuji always makes Tezuka feel like he is suspended in the air. He never touches anything, he is always floating, and Fuji is everywhere and nowhere at the same time. But Tezuka remembers the spots along Fuji's back that makes him shiver, and he touches them now. He remembers the barest shifts of Fuji's head against his shoulder as they move together. In the dark, he can't see the rippling of Fuji's throat as he swallows, but he remembers that too.

 

 

Tezuka is the only one awake when he leaves for school. He takes the subway, endures the morning rush, greets his students as he enters the school building. He eats lunch in the teacher prep room. He does not participate in the conversation unless the other teachers ask for his advice. When he thinks too carefully about their questions, they laugh. The English teacher is trying to set him up with her daughter. He guards against her advances much to the amusement of the others. One of his students falls asleep during class. Tezuka orders him to run laps. His class laughs at that, but there is a flurry of discussion as they wonder whether or not he is serious. They don't want to risk it. Everything is normal. No one asks him if anything is wrong. At the end of the day, he takes a deep breath and stretches. But he cannot stay here forever.

 

 

The sneakers are still in the genkan when Tezuka goes home. It is not a dream or a joke after all, and Tezuka has to steel himself to take off his shoes and step into his own house.

Ryoma is on the floor next to the couch, flipping the channels on the TV with an air of curious distaste. Some music game show is on. One of the contestants answers wrong, and the hosts proceed to tease him. The audience roars. Ryoma changes the channel with a snort. Tezuka imagines that Ryoma does not know any of the people on the screen. This idea shocks him. He thinks, maybe Ryoma does not know him either. Maybe he is as strange to Ryoma as those Japanese celebrities.

Except for the sounds of the TV, the house feels almost dead. Unsettled, Tezuka puts his briefcase in his room and goes to wash off his face. When he returns, Ryoma has turned the TV off and is just sitting on the floor, looking at the remote. Tezuka goes to the refrigerator for bottled water, and Ryoma says, "I thought you were Fuji."

"He went out?"

"To buy toothbrushes and stuff, I guess. He told me to wait here for you."

Tezuka exhales and contemplates his options. He could sit on the couch behind Ryoma. He could sit at the dining table and look somewhere else. He could pretend to need to go back outside, to buy groceries, and leave Ryoma here. The last option is terribly attractive, but then Tezuka knows he has been thinking about it too long for it to be feasible. He cannot keep avoiding Ryoma. There would be dinner, and at least another night. Fuji's invisible presence is in the room with him, trapping him.

He picks the dining room table. 

"About your father," Tezuka begins. "I am truly sorry." Ryoma says nothing. The condensation gathers on Tezuka's fingers, but he still doesn't let go of the bottle. 

The floor creaks under Ryoma as he shifts. From Tezuka's vantage point, the couch swallows up any sign that Ryoma is there at all. Tezuka imagines being in this apartment, talking to himself. It is possible. But Ryoma is real. 

"I waited for you," Ryoma says suddenly. His voice is coming from the walls and the floor, as if emanating from the house itself. Tezuka does not move. "I waited and waited. And then I was 18 and I went pro and I was so sure. And I kept waiting. And then—and then one day the old man said, 'What are you, an idiot? What do you keep waiting for? It's been three fucking years. He doesn't want to talk to you again, that's what.'" Ryoma's voice is a perfect mimicry of Nanjirou's tone. It jolts Tezuka, and he loosens his hand away from the water bottle. His skin is so cold it tingles.

Ryoma is still talking, flat and invisible, like a ghost. "I was pissed off. I didn't talk to him for months. But he was right, wasn't he. You didn't."

The apartment sinks back into silence. Tezuka feels like it could last forever, this terrible moment suspended between the two of them like a broken bridge. He should have gone back outside earlier. He should have never come back. He should have stood outside and waited for Fuji to come home. He has gotten good at avoiding and running away. 

"I'm sorry," he says again. "I meant to."

From behind the couch, Ryoma jumps up and slams his hands against the cushions. The dull thud startles Tezuka, who has to hurriedly cap his water before he gets it on the floor everywhere. Ryoma has eyes like a caged animal, like six years of anger spilling out in a single moment. "Stop _lying_ ," Ryoma yells, and that voice sounds nothing and everything like the person Tezuka used to know, reckless and pained and afraid. "Six years, I waited _six years_ , you couldn’t have meant to for a full _six years_ —"

"This sounds very friendly," Fuji says from the genkan. His voice literally derails Ryoma, who moves his mouth soundlessly before snapping it shut and turning to stare at Fuji. "I guess I can't trust the two of you to be alone together, can I?" Fuji smiles a little hollowly and hands Ryoma a small plastic bag. "Here. Toothbrush. Cup. Go put them in the bathroom."

As Ryoma disappears, Fuji takes out some cans of Ponta from a bag and stocks them in the refrigerator. "Honestly, Tezuka," he says chidingly, but with an undeterminable underlying bite, "you'd think two grown men could work their issues out peacefully."

"I didn't intend—"

"Of course you didn't, Tezuka." Fuji holds the refrigerator door open and stares inside, as if searching it for answers. He reverts back to being incongruously pleasant when he says, "In fact, I imagine you probably didn't intend to say _anything_."

Tezuka sets his mouth in a line but doesn't disagree. Fuji takes out some vegetables and meat and puts them on the counter. He washes his hands and leaves the kitchen, heading towards the bag still lying on the couch. As he moves past Tezuka, accidentally or otherwise, he brushes against Tezuka's shoulders. 

 

 

Days pass. Sometimes Ryoma sleeps on the couch, sometimes in Fuji's room. Fuji does not come back to Tezuka's room. Tezuka doesn't comment on any of this. He tries to continue his life as if this has never happened. No one is ever awake in the mornings when he leaves for school. Sometimes they are not home when he gets back either. The chores are still divvied up between him and Fuji, but occasionally Ryoma takes out the trash or is in the kitchen drying off plates with Fuji, the two of them laughing in low voices. Fuji takes great care not to leave Ryoma alone with Tezuka anymore.

Or maybe, Tezuka thinks, Ryoma is avoiding him.

About a week later Tezuka comes home and almost runs straight into Fuji and Ryoma, both carrying tennis rackets. "Ah, Tezuka," Fuji says warmly, bending down to tie the laces on his sneakers. "Echizen said he was feeling rusty." He looks straight into Tezuka's eyes. "Care to join us?"

Tezuka shoulder twinges. He puts his hand there automatically. "No, I'll pass," he says slowly. He and Ryoma do not look at each other.

Crisply, Fuji moves past him. "All right," he says. "We'll be back before dinner, but don't wait up."

After dinner, Tezuka is reading student essays at the dining table. Ryoma and Fuji are going through some of Fuji's old travel guides. Ryoma makes comments on the pictures and sometimes Fuji just chuckles to himself and sometimes he tells little stories about them: _this was taken before an English man streaked across the street_ , _this was when Akari dared me to eat chocolate covered bees_. All of a sudden Fuji remembers to water his cacti and excuses himself, sliding open the door to the balcony.

Tezuka is done with half the stack when Ryoma goes to the kitchen to get a drink. When he comes back out, he stills as he reaches the dining table. Tezuka can feel the air change around them. His eyes are no longer focusing on the written words. He can do nothing but wait for Ryoma to speak or pass on. 

"Fuji told me you don't play tennis anymore," Ryoma says. He turns his whole body towards Tezuka. They have not properly looked at each other since that afternoon. Tezuka's hands are not shaking, but he feels like he is falling.

Tezuka wets his lips and clears his throat. "It's true," he admits. "I don't play anymore." He does not explain. He does not know how much Fuji told Ryoma, how much Ryoma is willing to believe.

The pull-tab of the Ponta can comes off with a sharp snap. Ryoma keeps his eyes on Tezuka for a few seconds more before he nods, just once.

After that, something changes. They don't talk much still, but sometimes Ryoma is napping on the couch when Tezuka comes back, defenseless and exposed. Sometimes during dinner he talks to Fuji while looking straight at Tezuka, a funny closed expression on his face. Sometimes in the evening he and Tezuka watch the sports channel, sitting next to each other on the couch, silent.

And one afternoon, Ryoma flips through Tezuka's cataloged tennis magazines, searching for articles about himself. "Ch'," he mutters to himself at one point, a little bit embarrassed. "These are like love letters."

Tezuka is trying to draft a reply to his mother explaining why he doesn't want to attend another omiai. He crosses out another awkward sentence about his job as he says absently, "If it's the one about your final round at Wimbledon, I agree. You dropped your guard in the third set." When he lifts his head, his own words registering, he sees that Ryoma is smiling, a smile so bright and surprised it blinds him.

"Buchou," Ryoma blurts out, and Tezuka hurriedly coughs and goes back to his letter.

 

 

But from the beginning, things have been complicated and never completely about tennis. 

On the weekend Ryoma comes out of Fuji's bedroom wearing Fuji's clothes and stretching luxuriously. Tezuka notices that Fuji has bruises, kiss marks, that sometimes Ryoma laughs painfully when he sits down on a chair in the mornings. There is no acknowledgement of the fact that Tezuka accidentally walks into Ryoma pulling away from Fuji, both hands full of soap as they washed the dishes. At night Ryoma goes out with Fuji to water the cacti, and their silhouettes are converging shapes.

One night Tezuka comes home to an empty house. He makes dinner and waits for an hour before he eats it alone, watching some drama with a repetitive plot. He grades homework, takes a shower, and picks up one of his older German novels in an attempt to keep himself fluent in the language. The solitary light above the dining room table makes him feel slightly nauseous. He falls asleep at one in the morning and wakes up again at half-past, the creases of the book on his cheek.

It is two thirty before Fuji and Ryoma come home. Tezuka can tell at a glance that Ryoma is intoxicated. He is wearing one of Fuji's shirts, a pair of tight jeans that must be his own. Even from a distance, Tezuka can smell the smoke and alcohol. He bites the inside of his mouth. 

"Oh, were you waiting up for us?" Fuji asks, surprised. His arm is around Ryoma's shoulder, keeping Ryoma upright. "I thought I left a note." Ryoma laughs and leans into Fuji's neck. His body language is soft and pliable and all movement. Tezuka swallows and closes his book heavily. 

"No," he says, blunt, and turns towards his own bedroom. "Good night."

But he is unable to sleep. At around five, he gets up and starts getting ready for work. He brushes his teeth without looking at the mirror. The apartment is dark. He makes coffee without turning on the lights, but he almost drops the coffeepot when Fuji speaks up from behind him. "I don't understand you, Tezuka."

Steadying himself, Tezuka puts the coffeepot down and leans against the counter on his hands. For some reason, he is fearful of turning around and looking at Fuji straight on. Fuji makes his way soundlessly to Tezuka's side. He puts a hand on Tezuka's neck, brushing his fingers through Tezuka's hair. It makes Tezuka shiver. "I can't understand you at all," he murmurs. "How can you hope to know him if you don't talk to him?"

"I'm not," Tezuka says, trying to pull away. But Fuji wraps both his arms around Tezuka's waist, resting his cheek against Tezuka's back. He is gentle; Tezuka doesn't know why, but he feels like crying.

"And I was so sure, so very sure," Fuji is saying. "Sure to the point of being afraid that the first time, you were thinking of him as you looked at me. Sure that I was here to replace him. Sure that he came here looking for you."

Fuji's mouth tastes like salt and human warmth, but more importantly, of someone unfamiliar. Tezuka stiffens when he realizes, and Fuji pulls away, his tongue lingering on Tezuka's lower lip. He is wearing pajama bottoms but no shirt. His skin is chilly where he and Tezuka are touching. "Ah, but I was wrong," he says softly. He touches Tezuka's cheek and draws a line from the corner of Tezuka's eye down to his jaw. His voice is hungry for something that Tezuka cannot give him. "Not about him looking for you. Just that you've never touched him. It was something else that happened."

He kisses Tezuka with his mouth closed, chaste and delicate. Then he withdraws, leaving Tezuka alone in the kitchen with the smell of coffee and Ryoma's skin.

 

 

Two years ago, when Tezuka first began teaching, before he tells anyone other than his family that he is looking for an apartment, Fuji emails him. He too is looking for someone to split the rent. He asks Tezuka how he is doing as if they correspond all the time. They have not been in contact since high school graduation. When Fuji replies again, he says that Inui told him. 

Fuji is a photographer for travel guides. About a third of the time, he is out traveling with his co-worker Akari, who handles the culinary aspects that the company doesn't trust Fuji with. He and Tezuka get along perfectly. He keeps the place neat and does not mind that Tezuka vacuums the floor more times than strictly necessary. His cacti are on the balcony. When he is gone, Tezuka waters them. He does not talk to them even though Fuji asks him to.

Nothing happens for months. Tezuka begins to think he spent junior high and his later years training to go pro hallucinating about Fuji's intentions. Or, perhaps, misinterpreting. Tezuka decides there was nothing more to Fuji's inscrutable comments, his frequent pointless phone calls. He decides he had been thinking too much.

Then one night, Fuji comes home, takes off his shoes, and kisses the back of Tezuka's neck as Tezuka is reading essays on the couch. Tezuka starts and pushes him away, but Fuji takes a seat next to him on the couch, grips Tezuka's chin, and tells him with drunken preciseness, "I think I am not good with alcohol."

"Fuji, what are you doing," Tezuka demands angrily, but the hand on his chin is stiff and freezing from the weather outside. He's unable to move it. 

Fuji places a kiss on the side of Tezuka's mouth, then one on each eyelid. "I know you've been thinking about this," he whispers, and his fingers are full of promise when he lets Tezuka's face go, taking Tezuka's papers out of his hands and placing them neatly on the table.

The next morning Akari comes by with Fuji's coat. Tezuka invites her in, but she says she only came to drop it off and has somewhere else to go. "My, is he still in bed?" she wonders with a mischievous smile. "I never thought he was the lazy type."

"He has a hangover," Tezuka hazards.

Akari bursts out laughing. "From what? From last night?" She purses her lips at Tezuka, straightening her scarf in anticipation of going back outside. "But he didn't drink _anything_. We practically had to force just one toast down his throat."

After Akari leaves, Tezuka hangs up Fuji's coat carefully in the closet. He makes breakfast, eats it, and reviews the material for that week's lessons. Right before lunch, Fuji comes out from his bedroom, wearing one of Tezuka's shirts and nothing else. "Ah, Shiga Naoya," he says with distaste, reading over Tezuka's shoulder. "I always fell asleep reading him."

"He epitomizes the Showa style of the semi-autobiographical novel," Tezuka begins, but stops when Fuji nods absently, obviously uninterested. 

"Is there any more coffee?" he asks, and Tezuka gestures to the kitchen. 

Later, they go out to eat, which is neither unusual nor common. Tezuka feels Fuji watching him closely for the entire meal. The conversation, or lack of it, is the same as any other time. When they start off for home, it starts to snow. The two of them stand outside the restaurant just watching the snow land in their hair. Neither of them says a word. 

Weeks pass without event. Then it happens again, and again, and again. Each time, Fuji's excuses become more transparent. But still, they do not talk about it.

 

 

Tezuka has a staff meeting and is delayed coming home until dinnertime. Fuji is in the kitchen cooking, and to make sure the dinner is edible, Tezuka joins him. Fuji informs him that Ryoma is out buying a new racket. "He misses playing," Fuji says simply. "But he is still not completely over his father."

"We," Tezuka says, but can't go on.

"I know." Fuji starts chopping something with meticulous strokes. "You haven't talked to him about it. That's why I'm telling you now." He turns the vegetables in his hand and starts shredding them into even finer slices. "Get me the soy sauce, will you?"

Tezuka does, but then he just holds it in his hand, staring at Fuji, the line of his back as he leans over the counter. Fuji's hair is a little too long and it obscures part of his face as he finally finishes cutting, brushing stray pieces from his knife and arranging the slices in a pile on the cutting board. When he lifts his face, it is pale, paler than Tezuka remembers. "The soy sauce, Tezuka," Fuji says, holding out a hand and smiling, but Tezuka has known the difference for years. He grips the soy sauce in his hand and shakes his head. 

"Fuji," he says, "about last night."

"Yes?" Fuji's voice, sharp and cautious. Tezuka closes his eyes so he can envision this kitchen in the dark. The way Fuji looked last night, trying to reach out.

"What we did. It wasn't because of him."

"I realize now."

"No," Tezuka says suddenly, grasping at Fuji's wrist. Fuji is watching Tezuka's face with a curious expression, like he has been removed from his body and is watching from a far away place. Tezuka's chest constricts and he lets go. "No, what I mean is, what was between us. It was never about him." 

He hands Fuji the soy sauce. 

That night Fuji opens the door to Tezuka's bedroom so silently that if Tezuka hadn't been awake, waiting, he would have never heard it. Tezuka has his back against the wall, trying to make the largest space in the bed he can. Fuji climbs in, bringing his face close to Tezuka. Their foreheads touch in the dark. "Don't close your eyes," Fuji whispers. "Don't close—let me close mine."

Tezuka complies.

 

 

Two days later Ryoma's mother finally calls him. He doesn't say a word as he listens to her. Finally he says, "I can't, Mom, I can't," and hangs up.

Tezuka finds Fuji and Ryoma later in Fuji's room on Fuji's bed. Fuji is holding Ryoma in his arms, Ryoma's head tucked under his neck. He is rocking them back and forth, one hand in Ryoma's hair, the other running up and down the ridges of Ryoma's back. Ryoma is not crying, but his entire body is trembling, as if there were so much in him he cannot contain it. Fuji is the one who sees Tezuka at the door. He whispers, "shh, shh," in Ryoma's ear, and watches Tezuka over Ryoma's shoulder expectantly.

Tezuka knows what Fuji wants him to do. But he turns on his heel and shuts the door anyway.

 

 

"Echizen," Tezuka says shakily during dinner. "I think you should go back to America."

Fuji stares at him, stunned. This, Tezuka imagines, is not what he meant for Tezuka to do. But Tezuka forces himself to continue eating as if he has said and noticed nothing. 

Ryoma does the same. In between bites, he says, "No, not yet." He turns towards Tezuka with a confident smile. "I want to stay here for a while."

"You have a career to think about, Echizen," Tezuka reminds him. He is using his buchou voice by reflex, and he winces. He meant to sound like himself. He doesn't want to—but Ryoma retorts, "I'll be fine. I'll work it out later. It's not like not playing for a little while means I'll forget."

"That's not what I meant." Tezuka puts down his rice bowl. He can't look at Ryoma and instead looks at a spot on the table where there is a circular scar from a too hot bottom of a pot. "You need to think about your family, your coach, the companies sponsoring you. The French Open is coming up soon. You should be training."

"I'll skip it this year."

"Echizen—"

"Agassi didn't play in the Australian Open for eight years—"

"I don't want you to ruin your career!" Tezuka snaps, slamming his hands against the table. "I don't want you to ruin it just because of—of this—" He makes a gesture that he wants to encompass him, Fuji, his shoulder, all of things that have ever happened in his life. All the things that stopped being possible. 

No one speaks as Ryoma puts down his bowl and his chopsticks carefully. Tezuka doesn't notice that his breath comes in catches. He is watching Ryoma's face flare up, then transform into complete, impassable blankness. It has been a while since he has been so close to Ryoma, and he has forgotten the way Ryoma made his anger almost weapon-like. "If I go back to America," he says, each word perfect from his mouth, enunciated and clear, "when will I see you again?" 

"When—" Tezuka falters. "What are you—"

"In six years? In ten years? Do I have to wait until my mom dies? Or when Fuji dies?" Ryoma demands. He doesn't get angrier, just colder and colder. "Or maybe when you die. Maybe I'll see you then."

"This had nothing to do with that," Tezuka shouts. "Don't be ridiculous!" 

Fuji tries to get Ryoma to calm down by touching his shoulder, but Ryoma shrugs him away. "I’m not being ridiculous." Ryoma finishes off his Ponta and gets up, almost stumbling over his chair as he does. His voice is calm as he says, "Buchou. I'm not twelve anymore. I'm not fifteen. This is my own decision, and I am not leaving."

He stays in Fuji's bedroom for the rest of the night. 

Tezuka remains standing for a while at the dinner table. Fuji is the first to move, clearing away the dishes even though it is Tezuka's turn. While Tezuka runs the hot water and soap, Fuji boils water for tea. He has his eyes on Tezuka, thoughtful. Eventually he calls out Tezuka's name, strangely loud in the small kitchen.

"Don't—" Tezuka scrubs at an oil stain, furious. "Don’t say anything."

"I was just going to tell you that if you hold the dishes like that, you'll break them," Fuji points out quietly. He pours the hot water into the teapot and waits, tapping his fingers against the counter. Listening to the tealeaves slowly open and press against the sides of the pot, Tezuka lets his hands hang in the soapy water. He watched the bubbles pop themselves. His face feels feverish, his tongue too big for his mouth. Everything he wants to say is confused and settled like a weight in his stomach. He wants someone to sort it out for him, but he knows no one can. His mouth is bleeding from where he bit it earlier. The taste of blood repulses him, but he swallows. 

By the time he raises his head, Fuji is already gone with the tea.

 

 

In the morning Tezuka is just about to put on his shoes when Fuji slips out of his bedroom. He doesn't do anything, just stands in front of Tezuka as Tezuka pulls on his left shoe, then his right. Afterwards, there is an uncomfortable pause. Neither of them are used to saying the proper greetings to each other. Tezuka doesn't imagine Fuji would get up for that express purpose anyway.

It is a full five minutes of silence before Fuji opens his mouth. His voice is low and furious, but the anger is not at Tezuka. It's a distant anger, like he is channeling it and forcefully shoving it at Tezuka. "You want to hurt him now so he will forget about you. You want to push him as far away from you as possible so you don't have to deal with your failure."

"No," Tezuka tells him, firm. "That's not it."

Fuji tears on, regardless. "You want to erase his image of who you were before, but you don't want him to see you as you are now. You want to ruin yourself because you think it will hurt him less, but you don't realize that this will hurt him even more. You want to take back what you mean to him, but you don't give him anything to replace it. You want him to move on, but you know he can't."

"I'm leaving, Fuji."

"This _is_ it, Tezuka," Fuji says. He leans against the wall, his face blank and impersonal. "But it's too late, don't you see, Tezuka? You have already hurt him somehow, but he still wants to—"

Tezuka doesn't slam the door behind him. He has a working image of calm that lasts until he gets to the subway station. There, he fumbles with his pass and nearly drops his briefcase on the floor. The man behind him in a business suit watches him with pity, and Tezuka's hands are trembling when he finally passes through the turnstile. 

 

 

In class they are reading Part I of _Kokoro_. Tezuka calls his students one by one to recite. He is working purely out of instinct, just barely registering them sitting, them standing up. He doesn't hear them speaking at all until the boy in the second to last seat, in a clear, strong voice, reaches the end of his passage: "'The memory that you once sat at my feet will begin to haunt you and, in bitterness and shame, you will want to degrade me. I do not want your admiration now, because I do not want your insults in the future. I bear with my loneliness now, in order to avoid greater loneliness in the years ahead. You see, loneliness is the price we have to pay for being born in this modern age, so full of freedom, independence, and our own egotistical selves.'"

Involuntarily, Tezuka makes a movement forward. His book drops from the table. He doesn't reach down to pick it up. There is silence in the classroom afterwards; they are waiting for him to bend down, to call out the next reader, but he does nothing. He simply stands there, frozen. Eventually the girl sitting behind the previous reader stands up to finish, but Tezuka makes an impatient gesture. She sits down immediately, frightened.

Finally Tezuka gathers himself. He picks up the book and smoothes it down on the table, closing it. "I apologize," he says. A headache begins to throb at his temples like a wave of pain, and he can barely keep his eyes open. He takes off his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose as he continues, "I am not feeling too well. The rest of this class will be self-study. Please read until the end of Part I on your own for tomorrow. That's all."

The nurse is not in the sick bay when Tezuka opens the door. He lies down on an empty bed anyway and draws the curtain, putting his briefcase on the floor beside his shoes. He can see the light from the window flickering on the curtain. The sheets and pillow are a pure white. The light is a buttery yellow. For the first time in years, he feels unburdened, as if all the things inside him had been poured away. He closes his eyes. 

In his dream, he is on the tennis courts again. Each ball Ryoma serves is a bird that he catches in his hands. Ryoma is twelve, fifteen, eighteen, twenty-one. Nothing exists except this game, them, this tennis court. Tezuka's body is weightless and whole. When he lifts his arm, it is lighter than air.

 

 

Tezuka has ruined his shoulder three times: once in junior high, once during his second year in training camp, and finally, six years ago, during the first round of his second ever professional tournament. Needless to say, he drops out immediately. Right before he disappears into nearly half a year of intensive rehabilitation, Tezuka calls Ryoma. "I might not be able to play you again for some period of time," he warns Ryoma, his grip tight against the receiver.

"It's okay," Ryoma tells him. In the distance, Tezuka can hear the sounds of tennis balls banging, ricocheting off ready rackets. "When you are better, call me again. We'll make up for it."

"It may take longer than you imagine."

"I'll wait," Ryoma tells him, his voice the strongest thing Tezuka has ever known, like the sound of an explosion contained by two bare hands.

Despite Ryoma's confidence, Tezuka's shoulder never gets better. After half a year of doing everything short of affixing a new arm, the doctors finally pronounce a death sentence on Tezuka's tennis career. Tezuka comes home and locks himself in his room for a week. Oishi visits him daily to make sure he isn't going to kill himself. After Tezuka emerges, without a word to anyone, he begins to study for the college entrance exams. The next spring, he locks away all his tennis equipment, enrolls into college, and begins to major in modern literature with an eye towards becoming a high school teacher.

He does not call Ryoma ever again.

 

 

When Tezuka gets home, Ryoma is dozing on the couch. He wakes up to the sound of Tezuka shuffling in the genkan and swings his bare feet off the armrest. He is still in his pajamas, Tezuka notes with a twinge of disapproval. In the afternoon sun, Ryoma's hair is so black it is almost green. There is no sign of last night's argument on his face.

"Where's Fuji?" Tezuka asks, dropping off his briefcase. 

Ryoma shrugs, curling up on one side of the couch to make room for Tezuka. "He didn't tell me. When he comes back, we're going to go look for a motorcycle."

"For you?"

"Yeah."

"What are you going to do with a motorcycle?"

Ryoma's pajama shirt collar is open and loose, displaying long, lean stretches of Ryoma's skin interrupted by careful red bite marks in the hollows. Tezuka loosens his tie, then the first two buttons of his shirt. If he turns his head, he will see that Ryoma is watching him. He closes his eyes, leans into the couch. Ryoma smells like Fuji's body wash, Tezuka's shampoo, and sunlight. 

"Ride it, I guess. I used to want one as a kid." Then, taking a breath, he says, "I'm staying here for a while. Fuji said it was fine." His elbow jabs Tezuka in the ribs. "You can't make me go."

Ryoma is twenty-one. He is an adult and no longer in any way beholden to Tezuka's care or responsibility. Tennis magazines call him a star, potentially the most dominant player in the circuit. His father died recently. This is important, and yet neither of them has talked about it. He still calls Tezuka "buchou". He still thinks of strength in terms of architectural fixtures. He still has not forgiven Tezuka.

Tezuka is twenty-four. He has a job, an apartment he shares with a person he still describes as enigmatic despite more than a decade of acquaintance, and a tennis racket hidden so deep in his closet that even Fuji doesn't know about it. Sometimes he watches the tennis team at school practice and has to resist shouting at them to run laps. He doesn't know if he is happy, but he knows he finally wants to be. He does not know if this is will bring him happiness. He does not know if he wants it to.

Tezuka is twenty-four, and he thinks everything is six years too early and six years too late.

"Okay," Tezuka says, inhaling deeply. "Okay." He touches his face with his hands. He keeps his eyes closed. Ryoma's hand is on his arm, warm and strong.

The door opens as Fuji comes home.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not even sure what was the state of the canon when I wrote this fic but rest assured I probably wasn't following it very well anyway (I'm the worst). Title comes from Feist's "How My Heart Behaves": _Your shoulder/ the mooring for me/ like water lost in the sea._ At one point I quote from Natsume Soseki's _Kokoro_ , the complete text of which you can find [here](http://www.ibiblio.org/eldritch/ns/soseki.html).


End file.
